


In The Midst Of Isolation

by junkienicky



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Babysitting, Conflict, F/F, Family Issues, Fatherhood, Financial Issues, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Isolation, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Motherhood, Multi, Nichorello, Other, PTSD, Post-Prison, References to Depression, Slow Pace/Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-22 01:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12470196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkienicky/pseuds/junkienicky
Summary: Nicky will make-do when it comes to living, acceptance, blessings & not pointing out the obvious (and the clear need of discussion). At first it's quite difficult, then it's rather easy - somewhat bemusing. Then it gets more and more agitating like the once known gnarly itch of her addiction. Will she keep it contained or resist the urge keep it buried?(Or, in simple terms: Lorna's out & finally sharing moments with her family. Nicky's still in the picture yet feels more & more like a useless amendment to their unit).





	1. Same Shit, Different Day

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own OITNB or its characters.
> 
> **Author's Note:** Okay.... FIRST OFF I want to apologize to everyone who sent me prompts - I've not forgotten. They're secure. I'm working on them at some point, I swear. I'm not putting them off; I've just had lots of assignments, work and other academic/personal stuff that wanted dealing with first. This is also a mini-rant at myself for not just making this into chapters anyway. I had the idea at the back of my head but for some reason I just discarded it like "nah - just make it a ridiculously long fic that people are probably going to lose interest in anyway." Basically, I wasn't expecting it to be this long and I guess that's where I realized the pacing issue and evaluated that it would be far better than one LOONNG chapter to Bittersweet Composition. Thus - here it is as its own fic. So far, I have 13,000 words and I haven't even gotten to the core element of the story, so you won't have to wait long periods for me to update, AND I'll get to work on prompts meantime. I don't know why I didn't just do this in the first place.... Anyway, each chapter should roughly be around 1K/1K½. I have been working on the progress for a while (since, like, the end of August I think?) I hope you enjoy them and would greatly appreciate feedback. Thank you for the feedback on here, tumblr and FF so far!

It starts with a headache. It usually does, that concludes with her pitching up a tent on her couch. A checkered blanket draped across her legs, books scattered around the laminate flooring and coffee table, which consists of empty mugs, bottles and magazines with various selections of DVDs cases spread out, alongside the unusually clean ashtray. Headache, reading, sleep. Sleep, headache, TV. Reading, TV, headache. A rather simplified, yet repeated routine, in distant comparison to her once vibrantly clustered lifestyle, orderly structured timetable in Litchfield, to just _this_. God, she was getting old. Thirties are the new fifties is what she convinced herself.

She snoozes and snores now, with her arm draping over the couch arm and the television remote perfectly glued intact to her palm. SAW VI was flashing on the screen at an almost muted volume. For two months, she’d kept this up. Consciously and repeatedly sworn that she wouldn’t let herself fall through the cracks this easily, like some quirky young student living away from home for the first time. But had impaled somewhere in the cluster-fuck of her mind, that this wouldn’t be easily maintainable. It's hardly bizarre that she doesn’t exactly keep up with many 'friends' – including ones she left behind five years ago. _Especially_ not those kinds of friends. Sleeping, TV, reading, and headaches were primarily all her life consisted of since those seemingly endless years and encounters behind bars.

She had a headache today, walking back from her local coffee shop. Famous leather coat squeezed under the pit of her left arm, dark coffee (quite possibly strong enough to knock out a bull), clenched in her right palm. Strong rays of sunlight, vibrantly shimmering at her orbs provoking her to squint through the forceful light and rapid pounding behind her eyes. It was way too humid for that stupid leather jacket she couldn’t scrape off to anywhere without. And once again, she let herself grumble through her doorway and stumble onto the couch, to feast on the much-needed caffeine. She Allowed herself to doze off on the buzz and to whatever channel the TV flicked onto first – care of the content just barely slipping her mind.

Sobriety was peculiarly, yet conveniently rather easy cope through. Her seventh-time clean meant temptations had significantly less impact, and the thought or even discreet glimpse of sweet relief remained easily resistible. Still yet to fully kick the cigarettes - but she was far from hurry for that. If it wasn't gulping mugs, flasks (or even those stupid paper cups) of coffee down; It was smoking, inactively consuming what ever cheaply made reality shows America was shoving out, reading or lip-biting with an occasional side-order of a migraine. It was rather jading - which she knows she should most-definitely be spewing those thoughts back up into the deepest corners of the junctions of how-ever the fuck her brain works these days and all days. But she couldn't deny the fact, and that fact of boredom was indeed lingering. No matter how much the snarky blonde scowled herself for believing that - it remained there. Alone and dull like tonight’s forecast. Yesterday, today, and probably tomorrow.

But when Lorna called, it was different. Every time the soft sound of her voice hit her eardrum, it was something else. Sugary reminiscence of their past encounters and just something sweet that hit close to home. Of course, she already went in requesting a granted visit, fully knowing the scale was down to damn near impossible. That failed. Therefore, Morello called as often as she would, could and wanted, regardless of the little time they had to share. Often in naps, Nicky would replay the conversations inside her head – no shame in the smile that often splayed as a result.

_“Maybe you should see a doctor with your headaches, or try and meditate. I mean, I never really done it, except for, like, that one time, but it’s supposed to be real good for the mind. Isn't that what Yoga’s always sayin?”_

On the couch arm, Nicky’s iPhone gleams up a beam of light in the shadow-converged room and begins vibrating. Immediately, she shoots up from her hibernation, reaching to snatch her phone and attempting to prevent her hands from trembling. She taps the green circle, enough to make the colouring of the screen fuzz behind the tampered glass. “An inmate from Litchfield Penitentiary is attempting to contact you, to answer the call, please-” Without hesitation, she instantaneously tapped the digit; propping herself up properly from her slumped posture and putting the device to her ear. “Hey.” She says, all raspy at the edges from her awoken nap. Their conversation flows as it usually does through the topics they touch on. The topic of Nicky’s sobriety being fairly new, this time round. When Lorna reminds her she’s proud, it has Nicky’s heart pattering and a grin spread so wide, it began to ache her already, dangerously blushing cheeks.

The subject of support for Lorna’s _help_ was still pretty, unnervingly dismissed. It’s not that Nicky never didn’t intent to bring it up; reinforce the idea of support from professionals. But it was the possible chain-reaction that had led her to stray from. Help was what Nicky could always offer. But it was still a long shot. She’s one person. One person that can only give so much, no matter how much she knows for sure Lorna must’ve convinced herself how _‘fine’_ she is, guaranteed in these past few months. _‘You can’t keep dodging this, Nichols.’_ Though, she always certainly ends up overtaking the subject by the time the conversation is over, and all she’s left with is the frustrations and mumbling arguments of her own self-frustration. It was only a matter of time before she gets out, and only a matter of time Nicky can withhold her prominent and genuine concerns. Another topic of subject sparked, after Lorna had finished wittering on about the return of a shower-shitter that she’d endured the unpleasant experience of cleaning up in her janitorial session.

“Hey, so, I know this is a lot to ask. But, uh… I’ve been thinkin’ and would you… Go up to his house and see on him and Tommy? I’d ask my sister, you know, but she got her own kids to look after an’ she’s always workin’, an’… I know I come home soon, but I just want him to get used to having, like, a mother-figure around him until mommy comes home. I mean, he gots to see me whenever Vinny comes up for visitation but, maybe you both could do with some bonding?” The brunette asks; shine in her eyes and hopeful smile as she wraps the chord around her forefinger. It’s like a scene from an iconic seventies movie, set in the fifties. Nicky listened carefully, making sure to analyse every word and detail to ensure it's not a physiological trick to trip up on. She almost stumbles and stammers in the process. The blonde exhales and lifts from her camped position to take a short stroll around her apartment - phone still connected to her ear. “Uh… I-I dunno, man. I mean, if this is you worrying about Vinny, then I’m sure he’s keeping up, I mean he didn’t exactly abandon you both when he first laid eyes on the little, uh, alien. I’m sure they’re doing great” She chuckles nervously and clears her throat. “Oh, no, no, this ain’t about Vinny, I mean, it sort of is, but…”

“But?”

“Well, he just gotta job at Carl Junior’s, and, well, his dad and ma’s always workin’ and now he’s gotta job, no one’ll be able to look after Tommy and I don’t want him left with a stranger. I told him I was gonna ask you to come over, help out a little. If you want to? I just think Tommy could be spending more time with other people other than daddy and daddy’s friends, you know?” Nicky licks at the dryness of her bottom lip, thickly swallowing. She stutters while saying “umm, yeah, sure. Alright. Cool.” It takes Lorna indeed strength to restrain herself from jumping out in joy on the spot. She spews thank yous down the phoneline, before Nicky can manage to push a word in edge-ways at her expense. “Yeah-yeah, sure, no problem, but I’m gonna need his address and number, darl.” Once Nicky is able to find a pen with a sustainable nib and that actually contains ink, she scribbles out the numbers and address Lorna blurts out, coated by her enthusiasm and zest. “Okay, okay, slow down. One, seven...?”

“Four.”

Still strolling around her apartment, Nicky strokes the length of her nose and rubs her eyelid. It’s unpredictable to foresee how this was going to go down. She clears her now clogged throat, searching for questions, as well as answers. “Well, what am I supposed to do, Lorna?”

“Take him to the park.” She chirps down the line, as simply as could be. Nicky just scoffs. “Well, yeah, but. What if he cries? Shits himself. What if I fuck-up?” She slurs hopelessly, at her uselessness, unproductive-ness and incapability as an adult that should be pretty well-coped and responsible upon this milestone of her life. “Then you calm him down and change him. You won’t fuck up, it’ll be fine, Nichols.” Her voice is that sweet, the blonde can essentially taste it between her lips. All promise and optimism, weighing down on her pessimism. “Babe. I’m an addict. I’m not responsible, I can’t even take care of myself, like, neither can y-” She pauses, deeply inhaling and cautiously selecting her choice of words. “I don’t think I should do this.”

“You’re sober. I trust you. I know you, Nicky. You'll be alright.”


	2. We'll See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** I had to put a flashback in this, I couldn't resist. Enjoy.

The phone call ends and Nicky is left glaring down at a scrap piece of paper between her fingers, staring at the directions and digits above the dotted line. Lorna had two weeks remaining to knock off her sentence. A husband, a son, siblings, parents… And somewhat ex-lover on the outside, each anticipating her release. It was something she could allow herself to hold onto, as precisely and obsessively as possible to get through the final few excruciating days. At least, that’s what Nicky told her. Pull through, think about your family and you’ll be right. _“We’ll make it work, I will help you.”_ And above all of Nicky’s sworn priorities – that was her up-most promise. Even despite the predictable outcome of their one-sided, unrequited _thing_. The outcome would always be civilized; a helping hand when needed. The illusion of reality to the blonde was near-always oblivious; dreams really are just dreams as you grow older. If you’re courageous enough to reach and hold onto that shit, you’re lucky. You’re the one-percent on the bewildered, yet remarkably fantasized side of life. The other unfortunate ninety nine percent, on the other hand, were once on the edge. Close to that fantasy, yet so far, it was some endless cycle. Breathless and unable to keep up with the dynamics and loops of the eventual, conspicuous facade. She’d convinced that it was good for herself to keep some much-needed distance. At least she’d never get her heart broken for. All the while, it's still inexplicably, knowingly plausible that the blonde would go _there_ if some form of life ever depended on it... Again, and again, and again… And _again_. Maybe she’d even break her own heart purposely, only for Lorna’s sake and well-being. It’s not like that would be unfamiliar to her - not for the possible fifth time in her life, anyway.

* * *

“You’ve never held a baby before?” Lorna inquires, facing Nicky who’s sat on the bench in some phased out dilatory. The brunette tweaks her lips, clenching a mop in her fist. Nichols' eyebrows are raised up in revelation, as if it’s the most ridiculously random question ever slayed upon her. “No.” Nicky sits; her chocolate eyes glued to the fuzzy ceiling, which is glared by numerous bright and dull lights. One of them that seems to be buzzing on and off. Shit and cheap bulbs she’ll have to replace in her next job assignment. “What – never?” Lorna asks again, tainted amusement traced in her tone, that sounds stupidly unfair and slightly judgmental that leaves the blonde feeling embarrassed and oust. She lets out an exasperating sigh; her eyeballs still frozen to the light that seems to be wearing out her vision at this point; a result of the frequent counting of the tiny to humongous cracks in the ceiling, all cast by the glow from the lights. “No.” She vacantly repeats. Lorna props the mop up against the piss-yellow tiles and takes a small stroll to take the space next to her and sit. “Never, ever?” She pinches one last time, detecting the small placement of annoyance she’s caused. “Nope.” Nicky mumbles, popping the P at the centre of her lips. Lorna scrunches her nose in disbelief. “Really?”

“No! Alright?!” Nichols exclaims irritably, hands gesturing out by her sides. Her eyes now patched on the brunette, wide and bold, frustration flowing through her gaze. Lorna stiffens, as Nicky loosens up; her eyes darting back to the ceiling - where she intends to keep them for the remainder of this dull conversation. “Why not?” The lucid judgement now erased from Lorna’s tone. “Because...” Nicky begins, easing her shoulders and arching her back forward so that her eyes finally trace away from the lights. “I got no siblings and all my cousins are older than me and don’t have any nieces or nephews." A beat. "Not that I know of, anyway. Why’s it matter?” She firmly interrogates, although not specifically presenting any particular interest in the out-of-blue subject. “I just think it’s weird, s’all.” Lorna shrugs, pursing her lips. “I held so many babies. My siblings, my sister’s, my cousins… And my cousin’s babies. I forget the names of some of ‘em.” She admits, nodding. Nicky just exhales a breath of air and chats her teeth. She ticks her tongue from the roof of her mouth before slowly continuing. “When I was little, I got bored a lot. Marka being out on _'business meetings'_ with her boyfriend all the time. I wanted a sibling, but… One night they were gonna stay in. When no one was looking, I changed her birth control pills for fucking tic tacs.” The blonde wheezes as Lorna follows before Nicky sighs and shakes her head, unsettled.  “Still. Nobody likes surprises, so…”

“I think I wanna have kids.” Lorna chips in, thoughtfully. It’s like Nicky can notion her inclination as she desires at her fantasy. “Yeah? How many.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She smiles, smacking her lips. “Maybe three?” Nicky scoffs gently. “But I gotta find somebody first, though, don’t I?” Her voice fades off into sorrow. “Ain’t gonna do that anytime soon though, am I…?” She rhetorically whispers - the printed smile now wiped and she takes a stand to collect the mop resting against the tiles. Nicky kneads her eyebrows and sinks to observe the brunette; softening her hard features to soothingly say “sure you will.” Lorna only stops to turn on the ball of her feet and face the wiry-haired woman, a timid, delicate smile tugging at the corners of her dimples and her fickle heart pattering just a little. At least, more than she’d like to admit. “Do you?”

“Do I what?” Nicky undertones, trying to understand. “Do you want kids?” Nichols stifles her breath short and sharply; two small bubbles from the concealed air, pumping out the skin of her cheeks. A sharp laugh knifes its way through her lungs and exits her lips; her eyes diluting at the ludicrously of the matter. “Who, me?” She manages to burst out. “We are looking at the same person, right? The fumes from that bucket haven’t clogged up your eyesight?”

“I’m serious!” Lorna insists, slightly frustrated at the latter’s inability to answer the question wholesomely... For reasons she can’t quite distinguish why in both perspectives. “My Franny said she never wanted kids of her own. Goin’ through childbirth ‘an all that. But now she has four of her own and loves ‘em to death.” She argues. Still stood and holding the mop. Nicky only smirks. “I think me and your Franny are two completely different people.” The blonde pauses to point out. “Eh, but in all seriousness, you really want me answer the question with a serious face? Christ, no, man.” She stammers. “Look at me, I’m barely sober. Jesus, I couldn’t even take care of my fucking self before I got here.” She laughs, breathlessly. “Besides, even if I did want some little brats running around screaming and crying, and shitting themselves and puking all over... It ain’t a one-man job. Takes two to tango, and I don’t think my preference in pussy is a match there, so…” Nicky shrugs, a grin still smeared up her lips. “Why don’t you like kids?” Lorna asks, innocently. She doesn’t resist asking, as she approaches a little closer, dragging the mop along with her. The blonde fumbles for words. “It’s not about not liking them, Morello, you just… I dunno, you make the comparison in your head and for some people it works, for others it doesn’t, you know? It’s not – it doesn’t feel right. I already had my experiences enduring atrocious motherhood from knee-high, who insisted some asshole who believes children carry germs is a life-long match. I’m too occupied with my fuck-up of a life as it is, and always will be.” Nichols grumpily explains to then brush a few hair strands out her way. Lorna’s lips lift. “So, you have thought about having ‘em?” She beams, stretching those ruby lips. Once more, Nicky splutters and frowns. She lets out an exhausted sigh, which brings down her shoulders with it. “Do you ever stop talking?” She jokingly mumbles. The brunette chuckles and playfully knocks her arm in jest. “If I ever have kids, I’m gonna make you their babysitter.”

“Yeah?” Nicky responds, miserably in gloom at her aching rib cage. “We’ll see.”

* * *

She wakes up near enough 8:00AM the next morning - remarkably in comfort and surrounding of the duvet on her bed, for the first time in what must be two months. She dresses and grooms her mane that falls the length of her shoulders before cleaning her teeth. Applying an appropriate amount of mascara to her lashes, reapplying, and grabbing her keys and phone to hit _the husband_  (whom she had indefinitely renamed in her contacts) with a text as she staggers from her apartment door. Unusually free of a headache, she squints below direct rays of sunlight at the crumpled piece of scrap, pulled from her pocket.

> **To:** Michael Kelso
> 
> so yeah, dunno if lorna gave u a choice in the matter but I’m on way now. Taking a taxi
> 
> **Sent:** 8:38AM
> 
>  
> 
> **Received From:** Michael Kelso
> 
> Cool look forward 2 meeting u :)
> 
> **Sent At:** 8:38AM

At that, she scoffs. It's soon then that only takes a mere moment for her to feel the slight pinch of missing self-assurance. She was actually doing this.


	3. First Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s inevitable that Lorna could have done utterly worse. Out of a large proportion of assholes and nice guys, it’s alleviate for the former convict to know this guy lands at least somewhere in between. Even despite the mingling fact that she still quite literally despises him. It’s a lesbian thing. Nothing personal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** My stupid ass left my SD card at my friend's house, so yeah, this is late. I'M SORRY. Anyways, I have written another prompt for Bittersweet Composition and that just needs proofreading, so that'll be out reeeaal soon. I tried to break the paragraphs more so it's less confusing and whatnot (I know that's something I majorly struggle with). Anyway, enjoy. Feedback is appreciated. Oh, also, this chapter hints to another fic I'll be writing soon. Take a wild guess on what it's about.

Nicky barely gave so much of a thought as to how she should approach greeting him. The only direct conversation that was ever held between the two was their shortly odd phone conversation on responsibilities before the raid around a year ago. What should she say? What would be the correct way? Formally approaching people was something she never accounted for.  _Hey, man, you know I fucked your wife and told her I love her?_ The thought of an accidental reveal is terrifyingly absurd, inflicting an internal cringe. Her and Lorna were over; swept up and discarded along with the aftermath of the riot. Just flickering, acute speckles of dust shimmering from the light. Nicky’s here now, but dreadfully knows she’ll have to go eventually. Sticking around eternally lent no favors.

The taxi journey takes around fifteen minutes from her convict housing zone to the east side of Kew Gardens. Not that she obliged herself to keep track of time. The vehicle pulls up around the seemingly quiet and peaceful neighborhood. It looks friendly enough and it’s not as if Nicky was anxious about meeting the guy in the first place. If anything, she was more fretful about some kind of unfamiliarity Lorna would be coming home to. At the very least, she’d be able to observe if he was somewhat sane, or perhaps yet insane, to Lorna’s level of erotomania. Realistically, even between the walls of a cell cube, the conceptualization of marrying a complete stranger is perceived as barbaric. To Nicky, everything still maintaining perpetuation feels like a contempt farce. But what other judgement from the short bursts of Lorna’s enthusiastic descriptions of their encounters, could Nicky possibly muster up otherwise?  _Match made in heaven, I guess..._  Her final conclusion - unless she's unfortunate to witnesses otherwise. So far, she couldn’t take up an opportunity to analyse the two, and not for another two weeks, though even then, the blonde knows it'll come to baring the dread of debating whether or not to make herself scarce. Permanently.

It was hard to debate about, while she was frail to stop thinking about it in the first place. At this point in her life, her judgement was that conduct and complex - it was an increasing effort to read between the lines. As of now, her morality was strong. For the first time in just-got-sober-and-woke-the-fuck-up-sober strong. Arguably, being left with herself and only herself for twenty-four hours straight, her own worst enemy to the point of feeling repulsed by the sound of her own conscience, was rather hazed. There was nothing specifically there to ease and balance the scale appropriately anymore. And by that, she means Red. Red there to slap her right from wrong and send her on the sane tracks, before she somehow managed to create enough destruction to end herself.

When the car halts, she fumbles around for whatever change spares in her leather pockets to messily trickle into the driver’s palm. With a grumble of “cheers.” She exits the cab, making her way up to the door. There's a freeze as a sigh escapes her lips. The comprehension at just how far she’d genuinely allowed herself to go for this woman. After three knocks, the blonde vaguely hears someone stumble down the stairs before frantically opening the door. There stands a doleful ten-year old in spider-man pyjamas, waiting to know immediately what her proposition was. “Oh…” Is all that manages to slip out upon looking down at his appearance and height. Nicky hesitates a little, “um… Does Vinny... Vinny Muccio live here? I’m a… Friend of his - well, his wife. Maybe she gave me the wrong address, but I don’t-”

“VINNY!” He screeches loud enough for her to flinch in her skin, possibly fretting off some of those dead cells. She winces harshly at the pitch that pierced the air. It was pretty fucking early, and uncomfortably unnecessary to endure that kind of tone at this time in the morning. “I’m coming! I told you not to answer the door, get back in your room and play with your Lego or something, ‘for I tell ma when she comes home from work.” Vinny seethes. He makes his way down the steps to place a stern, annoyed glare on Gino.

Carl Jr polo shirt, tight black trousers, gold chain around his neck and a faint wispy beard. Nicky can sense this vibrancy of a wannabe macho-man, and damsel-in-distress-hero he makes himself to look broad enough to be. It’s not a judgement, not of how he looks and dresses, or where he happens to work because to be frank; Nicky knows in that instant that Lorna could have done utterly worse. “Oh, hey.” He greets Nicky at the door, “don’t mind my ass wipe little brother, he’s a little shit. Go on, fuckin’ scram!” Vinny hisses. Gino slowly makes his way back up the stairs, waving his middle finger and mouthing ‘fuck off’ to his elder brother on his journey. “Come in.” He rolls his eyes until offering a kind smile, opening the door widely for Nicky to step in and awkwardly proceed to remove her shoes on the door mat. “Nah, don’t worry ‘bout those, keep them on. Sorry, I gotta take a leak real bad, so, just go in to the living room ‘an I’ll be right down in a minute.” Vincent remarks apologetically. He scoots past in a different direction and she stranded by herself, feeling almost alien and displaced.

After a short pause, she walks into the living room taking in various details. The room contains duck-egg painted walls with combinations of framed family photos. Cream carpet and TV on a stand nearby some artificial, vase plant. Shelves are rammed full of CDs and old VHS and cassette tapes, with a brown couch pressed against the wall – an arm chair in close nature.

In the centre of the room lies six-month-old Tommy under his play gym, kicking and boxing the air with his chubby arms and feet. A thin tuff of blonde hair lying on his head. A grey jumper with a cute looking, cartoon giraffe on the centre of it, Mickey Mouse bib clipped around his neck with dampened patches from drool. A dark blue sock on his tiny right foot, though his left foot bare as he continues to waver his legs around. The ex-confict is instantly impacted with an unfamiliar, rippling pounding behind her chest. As she sits down, the young boy turns to prompt his prominent gaze upon her appearance. Chomping on three of his acute fingers, the curiosity and wonderment, lingering from his crystal blue eyes at the wild-haired blonde. Nicky stares back for a moment, her own soft orbs filled with bewilderment, yet tints of warmness. It’s a strain to take him in; an actual whole human being, compared to her previous memories of him as small bump inside Lorna’s abdomen.

It’s crisp and evident he’s still a bratty kicker, as Nicky recalls how the little striker would practice his shooting at the most inconvenient of times. Times his mother would gain rapid discomfort to stubbornly vent out on people around her. He'd meet frequent contact with the palm of Nicky’s hand or forehead, whenever she’d peacefully manoeuvre her hands across the swollen skin, at Lorna’s request. Nicky almost chuckles at the expense of her thoughts - how remarkably captivating it was to see him for real. Once a burden at her disbelief of his existence, weighing upon her vexation for Lorna revealing her likely unreal pregnancy. To discovering the medical draw crammed full of over a dozen positive pregnancy tests. To this. Real life, in the flesh that she hadn’t quite grasped that she’d be seeing for real. It was wholesomely surreal. In every sense of the word.

The blonde's almost stunned by his perplexity yet tinted amusement by her appearance, as he takes firm hold of his bib to munch on. Not breaking contact with the elder woman. She captures what must be a small smile, by the lift in his cheeks and dainty creases that appear around his wondrous-filled eyes behind his enlightenment on feasting on the material around his neck.

Only moments later, Vinny pops in and kneels to slide the missing sock onto the infant’s left toes. As he picks up, Nicky reads carefully; his handling and how he presents as a person, to his prominence Nicky can already trace in the way he portrays in the role of being a father. “So, you’re Nichols, right?” She nods. “Yeah, Lorna was tellin’ me about you in visitations, phone calls ‘n' that." For an instant, Nicky could've sworn she captured a frown. "Uh, wasn’t it you who called me after the whole, you know, lasagne in the oven’ thing? – I haven’t told her that you called me, by the way.” He raises his hands in a surrender gesture. “I don’t know if you were planning on telling her, but-”

“I’m actually planning on some, uh, under-wraps collude between us both to actually not let that slip, if you don’t mind?” She wonders, shifting a little on the couch. The idea of Lorna knowing her husband’s change in will to get his head in gear, and drive back, being secretly the latter’s take on persuading him and not his own, hadn’t bypassed to her senses. Imagining Lorna’s reaction was partially there, while also partially non-existent. Of course, that was boiled down to the hazy fog of Lorna’s complexity, and her emotions and reactions being frequently unpredictable. “Oh, yeah, yeah, sure.” He swears, wholeheartedly. “I mean, I was pretty worried that if you were planning on tellin’ her, she’d think I was some asshole running away from my responsibilities. I will say I was pretty scared but you brought me to my senses, you know? So, I came home, told my parents and little bro, even my buddies that I was stepping up now that I had a little kid on the way.” Vinnie stifles and witters on.

So,  _yeah_. In Nicky’s mind, it’s inevitable that Lorna could have done utterly worse. Out of a large proportion of assholes and nice guys, it’s alleviate for the former convict to know this guy lands at least somewhere in between. Even despite the mingling fact that she still quite literally despises him. It’s a lesbian thing. Nothing personal.

“If I’m gonna be real honest, Lorna really freaked me out at first. I mean, first the cheating accusations with Franny – and I wasn’t exaggerating when I talked about her having no tits. Then the whole pregnancy… It was a lot to take in, but, I guess I realized how much it really is in there, she must’ve been losing her mind. I suppose you’d know there’s some real psychos living right next to you in that place."

"Yeah, well... You got no idea, pal."

"She says she’s better now." A warm smile follows.  _Well._ ** _She_** _says that._  Is all that springs to Nicky's thoughts.

"We only got two more weeks now, to wait for her to get out, then everything will go back to normal for her. No more people and stuff around to make her say crazy shit.” The last few sentences prompt Nicky to laugh uneasily at a nervous range. Maybe he’s a decent guy. Though, certainly sheltered in his own world and quite literally stupid. It was eerie and dawning upon the blonde. Learning that Lorna’s husband potentially doesn’t even slightly suspect that her reactions and respondents are the cause of her explicitly obvious mental imbalance. “Uh… Yeah.” She stammers convincingly unconfident.

He sits nearby on the couch, before taking his eye away from his son. “Look, I… I didn’t wanna ask this, and I feel pretty bad doing so, but… I know I’ve known her for a while now, and…” The utmost strength given to prevent an abrupt, simple scoff is at miraculous level for Nicky. “I know she’ll be alright now, and even better when she gets out, she tells me she will. But, uh, since you’re, eh, you know, her best friend… She won’t think that w-we, I’m-”

“Gonna give me the hot beef injection?” Nicky interrupts, sighing almost. “What? No, man. I’m… Let’s just say the Earth freezing over into a second ice age would occur, before I’d even remotely consider sleeping with a dude. Let alone my-my best friends husband, ugh, Christ. Lorna won’t think shit.” She shakes ferociously, with hard eyes and internally vomiting at the thought.  _Fuck-a-guy? Fuck no_.

“Great, sorry, just, uh, yeah…” Vinny nervously laughs, scraping his nape under the collar of his shirt. “She sorta told me that you’re into chicks, so, I thought that wouldn’t be the case – uh, not implying that you’d intend to suggest such a thing, me neither, of course.” He waffles his words fast. A huge, stunned, teeth-exposing grin spreads up Nicky’s cheeks, so wide, it’s hard for her to determine if it’s clearly false, or just genuinely inflicted from the apparent off-centered humor. “I mean, I thought you looked kinda dikey, but I didn’t wanna say anything.” He randomly states, oddly chuckling. Her smirk is quickly swiped off, mainly from his stupidity, rather than ignorance. “Yup. That’s what my classmates wanted to let me know at my first private school. Never really grasped why. Maybe it’s the hair. I’m so glad you were able to identify my card-carrying preference on vajay jays.” She patronizes. Vinny clears his throat and avoids eye-contact. “Anyway.” He announces, snacking his knees and lifting from his home couch. He tickles his son’s toes, causing a little smirk from the infant as his father removes the soggy bib from his mouth and places the pacifier in replacement. “He was a nightmare last night. You wanna drink before I hit work? Coffee? Beer? Red Rooster?”

Nicky surprises herself when she’s rather stripped back by the suggestion of alcohol – especially by the time of day it was. She cocks a smirk, raising a brow in his direction to the kitchen. “Uh, thanks, but… I’m sorta trying to keep on the straight and narrow, actually. So, coffee, thank you. Also,  _Red Rooster_? What is that? Some kind of energizer or something? 'Cause it sounds like an angry, shaved ball bag.” The blonde exclaims, wheezing slightly.

Vinny returns moments later with two cups of coffee in his hands, and a backpack drooping from his arm. Tommy slurs segments of the word dad behind his dummy, still wavering his arms whilst Vinny hands the cup over to the blonde and sniffs as he sits. “Now, I know what you’re thinking. Guy like me, in my thirties, still living with my parents and kid brother with a wife and kid. It’s – it’s embarrassing, but that’s why I gotta job at Carl Junior’s, I know it’s not much, but it’s a start, and I gotta start somewhere. Some of my buddies don’t even have jobs. When Lorna gets out, I dunno if she told you, but, we’re gonna find some place. Not far, even if it’s small. See I know this was my choice and I had to step up.” Nicky inhales sharply, attempting to draw out and exclude parts of the details he fumbles out in his perceived heroic speech. Parts of her wishing he wasn’t this well put, no matter how revoltingly selfish that sounds. The philosopher that can ironically never quite see these things coming. The philosopher’s out of business now, sold out, shut down and moved elsewhere. Bunked in her own sorrows, bitterness and anger, behind the very walls of her own mind. And it’s about time she should probably shut that gate fully, too. After her work is done here, that is. Protecting the only thing she ever wished she had. Still wishes. Though, never quite entirely knowing what that is, specifically. That, and Lorna. Always Lorna. Anything that involved Lorna and her returned affections, which are apparently non-existent and drywalled like the feeling in her chest, and around her heart.

“Well. S’not like I could talk.” She suspires; only allowing a stern self-deplored stare at her very existence, in the shaky reflection of her pasting face in the coffee mug. “Is it warm out?” He asks.

“Eh. It’s mild.” She replies, pressing her lips to the edge of the mug to sip from. She swallows thickly and puckers her nose and forehead, which could easily be familiarized with the image of a baby tasting a slice of lemon for the first time. He’s two short planks, and an awful beverage maker.

Still, Nicky doesn’t suppose he’s at  _that_  level of fucked-up. That, referring to Nicky’s reinforced, reminded self-proclaimed despise and hatred in herself; always kept under the wraps she’d allowed no one but Lorna to unfold. “What were you in for? Uh – if you don’t mind me asking.” The tone of his voice paints precise interest in the subject, even though as soon as it formed and left his lips, there’s evident clues of him immediately regretting the ejection of his words.

“Oh, you know.” She says casually, lolling her head side to side a little. “Drugs.” Raising her brows and leaving a sigh that follows. “Oh, oh, right. Like no disrespect, like I still trust you ‘an all, I mean, we all make mistakes. Like Lorna, I guess, getting caught with her scams.” His trust leaves nothing more than a shrug in Nicky's mind. Something which she never cared to gain in the first place. But him additionally not grasping the depth of Lorna’s instability was setting Nicky’s mind on an increasing red alert.  _How the fuck could he not know?_  Her deepening concern delves with her already mixed frustrations. She knew her and Lorna had a lot to talk about when she came home.

“So, you met little Tommy?” Vinny titters; a watchful, caring eye on his son under the play gym. “I’m glad you are, cause, it’s only fair, you know? I mean, my pals have met him and Lorna’s, well… I-I guess you’re the only friend she’s got. She – she never seems to mention anyone else other than you. Talks about you a lot, too. An’ y’know, I gotta say I appreciate everything you did for her.” As if her heart didn’t already feel grilled enough, it’s now wedged between the metal grate above the flames of the barbecue. To put it into retrospective, she didn’t care. Not anymore. Which is also a major contradiction, since she does, and always will care. Productively, she’s also a blatant liar to herself and others around her - though mainly to herself. And that was prominent whether she was stumbling off the wagon, or clean sober. Everything she does, had done, and will do for her. It all leads to the unhappy ending of the outcast in Lorna's mind, which Nicky will always be, and knows it. “She talks a lot ‘bout you. Guess you’re real close, huh?” Her cheeks flush, upon digesting the said information. “Yeah. Guess.” She murmurs down into her coffee mug. He’ll never know.  _Least before I fucked up and you had to come along._

“Don’t you think he looks like-”

“Lorna.” Nicky cuts off, sharper than originally inspired. She might not believe it’s true; thinking at the end of the day – who fucking cares? All babies look the fucking same. One might pop out, and you’d may as well say it looks like Jeff Goldblum. Nothing really makes a difference, even if she would unwillingly admit that he kind of does look like his father. Nicky knows it’s out of spite, but it’s too early for her to care. She curls in her lips, throwing a petite smile in Tommy’s direction, regardless that he’s not particularly looking in her’s. “Yeah, no, I thought that too, but she keeps sayin’ he looks like me. First thought about calling him Vinny junior” He laughs, moving to place his mug elsewhere.

“She would.” She bluntly comments. “Oh, shit.” Vinny rises from his position to gaze at the small clock on the mantel piece. “I gotta get to work, I was late once this week, I can’t be again.” He apologizes frantically, gathering various possessions and stuffing them into his backpack before sliding it up onto his shoulder. “Gino should be going school in about fifteen minutes, use the keys on the side to lock up. Tommy’s stroller's in the kitchen, so, when you take him out, it’s in there. His bag’s with it too, there’s diapers, yogurts, his juice, spare pacifier if he needs it. And baby wipes. If his face turns red, he’s doing a shit, and you better pray he ain’t. Anything goes wrong, jus’ gimme a call.” Mentally, Nicky takes extensive notes before they all stir into debris.

_Stroller – kitchen. Bag – kitchen. Bottle, wipes, diapers, food – bag. Right._

“Oh, and by the way… Careful when you change him 'cause he might pee on you.” Vinny declares, shrugging as he makes his way towards the door.

“Oh. Great.” The blonde utters, her eyes following him to the doorway. “Gino! I’m leavin’ and you better be soon. Pa will only ground you, don’t say I didn’t warn you!” He calls up. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” Vinny nods and scarcely leaved with quite the jog in his step.

Nicky decides sitting around is pointless, and anything but comforting. She immediately retreats to fetch Tommy’s stroller and begins setting it up as he watches her actions whilst chewing on his fingers and dummy. “Uh… Okay. Bag, stroller... Do I wear the bag, or put it on the stroller?” She tusks eyeing up the bag - knowing there’s no form of persuasion or bribery that would convince her to carry it around her shoulders.

“Yeah. Nope. Bag goes on stroller.” A sigh follows. "Am I really doing this?"


End file.
